


wishes wisely expounded

by lady_peony



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Childhood Friends, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Rescue, Swordfighting, dramatic confessions, this is not exactly a princess bride au but is in the spirit of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony
Summary: "Why are you crying?" Goro says, and tilts his head, his fingers already curling around the knife at his side, even if the handle is still a little awkward for his palm.The figure at the bottom of the gully looks like a child, and sounds like a child—but strange dangers lurk in the woods.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 45
Kudos: 200





	1. as long as these stones keep their hue

**Author's Note:**

> +not much warning in this one, except for a brief mention of akechi goro's mother's death. and typical expected fairytale violence most likely.  
> +where does this take place? idk my friend, east of the sun and west of the moon and in a tiny kingdom far far away  
> +from cursory research i think coffeehouses had been around even before the beauty and the beast tale was published as a written work, so //hand-waves over this whole thing...let's just give sojiro a coffeehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why are you crying?" Goro says, and tilts his head, his fingers already curling around the knife at his side, even if the handle is still a little awkward for his palm.
> 
> The figure at the bottom of the gully looks like a child, and sounds like a child—but strange dangers lurk in the woods.

Once upon a time there was a maiden. 

She was not powerful, or magical, or wealthy. 

But what did this maiden have then? This maiden was fair of face, a beauty in the way that a sunrise is beautiful. 

She met a man she loved, and was a maid no more.

The man who she loved had power and wealth (and magic, so it was whispered) on his side. 

The one thing he lacked, the one thing he did not have was—a heart. 

He left the maiden without a word, went back to his lands far, far away where she could not follow. Left her, without a single passing thought to her fate.

The maiden—the mother—had hope in the beginning, once her child was born. 

He would come back, surely, if she stayed patient and true? If he heard it was a son—surely he would not forsake his duty, be cold enough to leave his own child alone in the world?

It took a year and a day before she began to give up.

It was winter, and the cold snapped at the door like the teeth of wolves. 

The mother, who had been crying bitter tears, turned her face to the side to make sure they would not fall on the babe below. "If his father will not love us," she had said to her son in her arms, "I wish you will be loved by the world."

At least she hoped it would be a little kinder to her child than his father was. Perhaps it would shelter him, protect him, where she could not.

For a time, the mother took care of the child, as best she could. Tried to keep him fed and clothed. Tried to take work where she could — humble ones and hard ones.

One day, when Akechi Goro had just turned seven, his mother walks into a river. She does not return. 

In a different story, on a different path, his mother could have been a heroine. We would have heard more of her tale. Her childhood. Her love of summer-ripe peaches and singing. Her dislike for long travels and sad stories. 

But in this tale, in this tale—alas! This was where hers ended.

Her son—Akechi Goro—was left alone in the world.

When Akechi Goro turns eleven, he meets Akira.

* * *

"Why are you crying?" Goro says, and tilts his head, his fingers already curling around the knife at his side, even if the handle is still a little awkward for his palm.

The figure at the bottom of the gully looks like a child, and sounds like a child—but strange dangers lurk in the woods. 

The child looks up. Dark hair is plastered over his forehead, and what looks like water—or tears—drips down over his cheeks. Beneath those bangs, his eyes are bright, a light grey like that of moonbeams. 

"I got lost. And I can't—I can't get back up."

Goro clicks his tongue. Stupid, to get lost in these woods. If Goro hadn't wandered in so far, what would have become of this child? 

Goro feels his stomach growl. All Goro has found so far this day from the woods are a scant handful of nuts, and a few fish that he had managed to trap. If he walks back to the village quickly enough before it gets dark, there may still be someone willing to trade something more substantial for the fish.

"How did you get lost?" Goro doesn't really care, he tells himself. But if there is a bigger danger here—he can at least learn of it and run away first.

"Well—" 

A meow sounds into the air. 

The child moves his arms, adjusting them to reveal a pitiful-looking bundle of fur shaking on his lap. "This cat fell into the river, and I had to get it out. I was trying to walk back and slipped, so—" he tugs at his hair in front of his eyes, "—we ended up here."

A cat. This boy had nearly broken his neck over _a cat._

"I see." Goro rocks slightly on his heels, thinking. Surely someone else would pass by later, a hunter or a villager or someone else—

"Will you help me?" The boy's voice, for all that he had been crying less than a minute ago, is steady and clear, cutting through the air like an arrow. 

"What's your name?"

"Akira. Kurusu Akira."

Goro shrugs off his supplies to the side, and crouches down. Peers over the edge of the small cliff overlooking the muddy gully. 

He reaches out his hand. Akira, holding onto the cat under one arm, tries to scramble up the slope—reaches up—and—

He can't make it. 

Their fingers just miss each other.

Goro grits his teeth. Takes in a breath, and stretches forward just a little more.

Goro still can't reach him.

"I can't." Goro clenches his hands into fists at his side. "I can't get to you. What now?"

"You can get help," Akira says. He tells Goro to walk back to town, to ask for someone called Sojiro at the coffeehouse, located between a set of attached stables and the town well.

Goro listens, and remembers. He stands from the ground and turns on his heel.

"Wait!" 

Goro stops to look back over his shoulder at Akira. "What is it now?"

"Will you come back?" This is said with more uncertainty than his previous cry. Akira's head is down, looking more at the cat in his arms and at the ground beneath his feet.

"Yes," Goro says. He takes one step back towards the road. Stops. He fishes out a half-full water flask from his belt, and tosses it down. There's no knowing how long Akira has been down there without food or drink.

Akira catches it in his hands without dropping the cat. And he looks up at Goro, a wondering look in his eyes.

"I'll come back," Goro says. "I promise." 

"All right," Akira says. Nods. "When you come back, I'll return this to you. It's a deal."

Goro does return. With help, and rope, and Sojiro, the man Akira had asked Goro to find.

When Akira scrambles up the cliff, Goro's hand is one of the first to clasp around Akira's. 

Akira smiles at him and—that is all it takes.

They become friends. 

It's easy, easy—like fish swimming between the currents of a stream, like wildflowers sprouting in spring. 

Goro is no longer alone.

Goro is invited to stay with Akira in a house not too far from town. The walls are sturdy stone, the furnishings inside comfortable. The rooms are empty of other inhabitants, save for a cook and an elderly housekeeper who drop in once in the morning and once in the evening. It seems only Akira lives there.

Sometimes, on certain days, visiting teachers come to see Akira. A thin-lipped tutor of writing and mathematics, history and geography. A spry swordmaster, with a wit as fast as the blade they wielded. A dancing teacher. 

Akira refuses to take his lessons without Goro besides him. Since Goro is quick to catch on and generally well-mannered, none of the teachers protest the arrangement too strenuously.

They visit Sojiro, the coffeehouse owner who checks in on Akira from time to time. 

The rescued black cat is soon named Morgana, and grows fat from chasing off the mice around Akira's house and Sojiro's coffeehouse, as well as the fish that Akira slips to it from Goro's plate. Goro pretends not to notice, half the time, and Akira can always be counted on to feel guilty enough to slide some of his own food over to Goro.

Summer, autumn, winter, spring, and summer again. The two of them—Akira and Goro—grow. 

Neither ever stray far from the other's side, staying close together like twining tendrils of honeysuckle, reaching upwards for the sun.

Goro is twelve, and laughing at an ink smear that had snuck up on Akira's cheek when they are practicing their penmanship.

Goro is fourteen, and smiles tauntingly as Akira pushes himself up to his feet from the dirt with a grin, swinging up his practice sword to clash with Goro's. 

Goro is sixteen, and they stay up far too late past moonrise, playing yet another round of chess on the floor between their beds.

Goro is seventeen, and in love.

It happens like this:

His hand twists the heavy plum off the tree, and passes it to Akira's fingertips, waiting below his. 

Akira bites into it immediately, and lifts it away from his mouth. 

"Thanks, Goro," he says. Smiles. There's a faint stain of juice lingering on the curve of Akira's lips, a deeper splash of reddish purple over Akira's wrist, trailing down from his palm holding the bitten plum. The purple of the plum seems to glow with a richer color against the ivory of Akira's skin.

Goro's fingers itch to reach over, to brush over Akira's mouth and watch the juice stain his own fingertips.

He wants to make Akira smile again. Like that. 

Wants to bring him gifts nicer than a plucked plum. Anything that Akira would ask for, if he would ask. Anything—fine gifts of gold and gems, rarities and curiosities, from beyond the mountains, from across three seas. 

Something tilts ever so slightly inside Goro's chest that day, like a bird swooping down to rest at nightfall, their wings settling around their sides. 

Just a week after, after Goro had thought and thought and summoned all his resolve to speak—

Akira is sixteen, and standing statue-still and pale in the doorway, a sheaf of letters held gingerly between his fingertips.

"It's from my family," he says, looking up at Goro, his glance heavy as stone. "They want me back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +i had instant ramen for lunch so i could post this instead of cooking ; - ;  
> +there's probably some kind of plot for this showing up in the next two chapters wheee  
> +you can come find me on my [tumblr](https://qserasera.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/mallory_madder)


	2. got it by sea, or got it by land, or got it off a drowned man's hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You'll come back," Akira says. His voice is soft, and for a moment, Akira hates the way the it sounds. Childish. Wavering. 
> 
> Goro glances up, at last, at Akira. Something in his face unspools, eases just a little, some strange alchemy in his eyes shifting hard amber to honey, until it is the same face of a boy that Akira knows almost as well as he knows himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +nothing much new, but slight warning for a brief detailed description of them making out in this chapter, if that is the kind of thing that bothers you

"Will you go?"

Goro's face as he asks this is composed, his lips pressed together in a neutral line.

Akira folds the letters in his hands, slowly, neatly, crease by crease. He slides the letters back into its envelope, and sets it down on the table. Stares at the red Kurusu seal on the back of it for a moment, before lifting his eyes to Goro.

"Why should I? I had promised you. We would both—" Akira's breath catches in his throat, and he releases his fingers from where they had curled into his palms. 

Akira had promised. That he and Goro would travel soon with one of the ships at the nearby harbor, the _Orpheus_. Sail the seas, see the places that he and Goro had quietly discussed in the night with a single candle lit in their room, their heads bent over Akira's hand-drawn copy of the maps of the closest coast and far-away shores.

Earn their fortunes, somehow. And help Goro track down the whereabouts of that man—the one some would say would be his father.

Goro takes one step forward, advancing further into the room. Then another. One of his hands reaches down, and he extends two fingers to tap idly on the corner of the table, just an inch away from the envelope Akira had set down, innocently resting in place.

"Whatever we might have decided before," Goro says. "Plans can change."

"Goro," Akira says. "But—the shipmaster we had spoken to. Didn't they say that they would set sail in two days? They had agreed to take us both—"

Akira can't see Goro's face now. Goro is looking away from him, towards one of the windows. The smell of drying grass, in the hushed tail end of summer, and fading wildflowers drifts in the air between them from the doorway that Goro had just closed.

"Akira," Goro says at last, the tone of his voice serious and deliberate. "If it's your family asking for you—I believe you should answer them, should you not?"

"What about you?" Akira says. 

Goro smiles. It's a quiet, sidelong thing, like the flicker of candlelight against a pane of glass. "What about me? I'll go, of course."

_Go? For how long?_

Akira breathes in, despite the feeling of a stone sinking down his throat, his chest.

"We've already been together for quite some time. I'm not unthankful," Goro says. "Perhaps this is convenient timing. For our own adventures. We've both already prepared our supplies for traveling, even if it's not together."

The packing itself had not taken them long. He knows what Goro had bundled up; clothes, some supply of food, money, useful tools, an old locket—a sentimental keepsake of his mother's that he always kept close to him.

Akira knew for a while now that they might have to separate eventually, eventually, but he had seen it as something far into the future, an idea with the same substance of the morning mist.

Akira recognizes the pounding in his heart as fear. 

Two days. 

Two days. Goro is in the same room as him, but Akira can already see his back, the curve of his shoulders and ends of his hair, all disappearing into the restless landscape of the sea, his feet planted on the deck of a departing ship.

"You'll come back," Akira says. His voice is soft, and for a moment, Akira hates the way the it sounds. Childish. Wavering. 

Goro glances up, at last, at Akira. Something in his face unspools, eases just a little, some strange alchemy in his eyes shifting hard amber to honey, until it is the same face of a boy that Akira knows almost as well as he knows himself.

Goro turns away from the table, slides forward closer to Akira. His hand lifts, folds over Akira's right one. Squeezes. 

"Yes," Goro says quietly, Akira's fingers entangled with his. "I'll come back."

"When you do," Akira says. "I'll be here." 

The words leave his lips like a secret and confession in one.

Goro just smiles again at that, something more reassuring, lighter in it, and releases Akira's hand. 

* * *

  
Akira writes. 

He first writes to Goro of his journey back to the Kurusu estate. Writes of his boredom, of his weariness, of the travel dust and hard inn beds, and the small joys he sees on the road, like the time Morgana had scampered off to bat at a dragonfly, then yowled and flung himself back into Akira's arms when a nearby donkey had taken offense and proceeded to chase Morgana out of the field.

His eldest brother, seven years his senior, was the heir presumptive of the Kurusu. However, regardless of the qualifying presumptive, his position had long been considered a foregone conclusion.

His brother had been the one to suggest sending Akira to the countryside, Akira remembers, to one of the minor summer properties of the family. To foster greater independence at an early age, or some such idea. Or so he had said. 

Akira remembers, but he does not write this to Goro.

At his return, his family had greeted him with every ounce of courtesy that is his due as the second son of their blood, but not a single ounce more. 

Akira is disappointed and surprisingly unsurprised at his welcome. As he later learns, his eldest brother had been carrying out his duties adequately enough, but not quite enough to match the lofty expectations of the Kurusu name. 

It doesn't take long for Akira to realize that his homecoming, if it could be called that, was less about bringing him closer to the fold of the family, and more of a calculated chess move. A reminder.

The message, so it goes, to the eldest brother: _Do better. Do better, for if you do not, we still have a spare._

It takes less than a month's time before Akira has had enough. Turns around, begs his leave from his parents and his brother with every drop of graciousness that he can summon, and goes.

He gets letters by the armful from Sojiro's coffeehouse, for he had not known how long it would be before he could return and had asked his correspondence to be sent there instead. The letters are all written in Goro's hand.

Akira writes. Tells Goro of new personages and friendships that he had struck up of late. Futaba Sakura, Sojiro's adopted ward, who had a long-abiding interest in mechanical machinery and other curious devices. Ann, a friendly dressmaker, as swift with her smiles as her hand with her needle. Yusuke, an itinerant painter, following his master between commissions from wealthy patrons.

Akira writes also of new gifts that he had brought back with him from his brief sojourn to the Kurusu estate. Arsène, a mare with a coat of deepest black, wily as the devil and sweet as sugar only around Akira. And another horse, one that he thinks would suit Goro. Robin, a gray stallion, with a coat that gleams white in the sunlight, high-spirited and clever, with a good-natured disposition. 

Arsène was about three and a half years of age, while Robin was four, the head groom at the Kurusu stables had told him. Still young, but of the right age to continue furthering their training with someone they trusted.

Akira's family had not been pleased at his early departure, though they would not deny Akira any reasonable requests that were his prerogative as the second son. 

So then—a handful of other servants to return with him, a groom, a carpenter, and builders—to survey what had been Akira's dwelling for nearly half his life, and to maintain its upkeep. 

So then—the horses.

 _Perhaps_ , Akira had penned to Goro, _perhaps when you return, we may ride together, me with Arsène, and you with Robin._

 _The idea would please me greatly_ , Goro replies. _I know you're a soft touch, Akira, but do try not to spoil them with too many treats as you do with Morgana, no matter how persuasively they may ask._

It is the last letter that Akira receives from Goro for some time.

Akira sends another letter, the next month. 

And another one. And another.

_Are you in trouble, Goro? If you are—I don't care how far you are. Tell me, and I will fly to your side, if I must._

_Where are you?_

Nothing. 

Nothing. 

Another winter passes into spring, passes into summer, a full season's turn since Goro had left. Akira's smiles become rarer and rarer. 

News of the _Orpheus_ reaches him soon enough, dark tidings about an unlucky storm after a run-in with a band of corsairs, and Akira stops smiling, for some time.

* * *

Everything at the ball glitters.

Candles brim along tables and at all sides of the room, their light bright enough to dazzle and wink off the gems dripping from the guests' necks and fingers.

Perfumes mingle with the scent of flowers crushed beneath the feet of the dancers as they spin, colliding in a dizzying profusion to the senses with the sight of shining silks and satin, brocade and lace, all in the best and latest fashions that money can buy.

Gossip and laughter flow together, as thickly as the wine. 

Very little of it comes from benign amusement. Very little of it is sincere.

"Is The Honorable Sugimaru not attending today's fete, when his betrothed is here? How odd. I heard the Viscount, his father, had received an invitation from Baron Shido—"

"Perhaps he had an encounter with those so-called Phantom Thieves—"

A laugh in reply, unpleasant and tittering, like the loud scrape of metal on metal. "What quaint stories the commonfolk make up for their own amusement! The tales are entertaining enough, to be certain—"

"What is it exactly that they _do_? With the guards and magical protections that most nobility have arranged for—"

The sound of a fan closing shut, a voice lowering to a furtive tone. "Whispers say they target only the most powerfully _wicked_ persons. And once they do—it is unknown by what craft or crook they use to carry out their goals, but the miscreant's crime is brought to light, their secrets revealed to all and sundry—"

Everyone is masked here. Excepting a few of the richest guests who brought in their own masks studded with feathers and gold leaf, most others accepted the dark masks furnished by the footmen at the door.

The mask over his face is more of a scrap of black silk than a proper disguise, but then again—it will serve for his purposes.

Certainly, the mask goes well enough with his own outfit, with his dark coat and silvery attire beneath. Like something woven out of starstuff and crystal, Ann had said approvingly, when he had chosen it for tonight.

Akira listens, and watches, and moves in and out between the rooms holding the ball. Dances obligingly enough, when he can't avoid it, and says little. 

Some time passes. Akira subtly tries to roll a crick from his neck, feels ready to go.

"My, my," a masked woman—a girl?—says, and brushes a hand against Akira' elbow. "Will not a mysterious gentleman like yourself be so kind as to entertain a lady with a conversation?" The scent of wine wafts off her breath as she leans in closer, her green gown and dark ringlets rustling with the movement. "Or if not a conversation, something more diverting—a dance, perhaps?"

Akira tries to grin and untangle himself from the woman, who has a look in her eye like a viper spying an especially plump bird. "My apologies—" he starts.

"I'm afraid," a new voice cuts in, smooth and melodic, "that his next dance has already been promised with me."

A prickling down his spine. Something in Akira sparks to attention, like that of a stag lifting his head to catch some scent on the wind, hearing the sound of a branch snapping underfoot—

The woman looks up at the other guest who had spoken. Her lips turn into a pout, but she steps back from Akira, and flutters a fan over her mouth sulkily before slipping back into the crowd.

Akira does not turn around, not just yet.

"Hello." The greeting is spoken low and soft, the man's breath almost brushing up right against Akira's ear.

Akira waits, wondering if the presence behind him will disappear if he does not turn around.

It does not. 

The music of the ball dips into a different song, the melody swooping down to a tantalizing depth, swift strings rising up as a sweeter counterpoint. 

The song is a quick and heady thing, restless with an edge of restrained hunger. Something that stirs up one's breath and blood.

"It's the next dance," Akira says, as if his voice is coming from somewhere very far away, and he turns, and grasps onto his partner's hands.

His partner's height is slightly different—taller than Akira, perhaps by an inch or so.

Though Akira has never seen his partner before this night, they move together in surprising harmony, as if this is the hundredth dance they have danced together, and not their first.  
  
Everything falls away, but the music and their motions following it. Akira's hand, resting on his partner's shoulder. The gloved hand wrapped around his waist. 

The fluid, unbroken circles of their footsteps, like the arc of the moon through the sky. They circle together over the floor, once, twice, thrice.

They stop.

Akira can no longer hear the music. 

Can no longer hear any of the other guests, in fact.

The room they are in looks to be a small antechamber, far enough away that the music and chatter of the ball seems as if it is coming from some distant shore. It's darker here. The only light seen comes from a single window at Akira's right, moonglow painting faint silver patterns on the floor.

Akira speaks.

"Why," he says, slowly, deliberately, each word feeling like a pinprick on his tongue as they leave his mouth, "are you here? Goro?"

The hand at his waist tightens. And lets go.

Akira lifts his head. Sees the mask that matches his, the same rectangle of black silk. The eyes—

Dark brown and familiar. Burning, burning, as they look back at Akira, sparks and nitre.

Akira has his back to the wall, and Goro in front of him. 

Despite that, Goro is the one who looks cornered. 

"I—" Goro says, and smoothes a hand down his side, tugging once at the corner of his suit. "I did not expect to see you here."

"Imagine my surprise," Akira says, like the first lunge of a blade, "to see you at all."

Goro inhales. Swallows. He reaches up a hand behind his head to undo his mask, winding it between his fingers. "It was not my intention to return like this—"

"What should I know of your intentions?" Akira's right hand squeezes into a fist. "I knew nothing. Heard nothing. When I heard the news from the sea, I believed you were—a _whole year_. A whole year," Akira repeats, more softly, "where I woke and slept and woke. And you had not yet returned, or even sent a word."

Goro is silent. Jaw set tight, his eyes fixed on Akira's face.

"I wager you had more important things to look after, since I left you first," Akira goes on. "If you're living well, with or without me, that's all I need to know. We're older now—It only follows we couldn't stay besides each other for too long—" Akira closes his eyes for a moment, trying to feign a calm he could not keep. It would be easier if he's not looking at Goro's face while he speaks.   
  
A sharp feeling aches between his ribs, in his chest, like a dagger had tipped towards his heart and lodged there. He feels his eyes blinking now, very rapidly. "I thought you would think of me, at least a little. I suppose I was wrong."

A thump sounds against the wall. 

Akira's eyes fly open, and he inhales.

" _No,_ " Goro fairly chokes out the word. The mask that Goro had been twisting in the fingers of his left hand drifts to the floor. "No. That's not it."

One of Goro's arms has reached out, his hand splaying over the wall next to Akira's face. Goro's chest is rising and falling quickly, his breathing echoing in the silence. His other hand hovers in the air, as if wishing to reach over and touch Akira on the shoulder, but hesitates to do so, for some reason. 

"You are mistaken," Goro says, sounding as if every word was being dragged from the depths of deep water, some unnamed emotion flashing within Goro's eyes. "I did think of you."

Akira's heart quickens, left too open, too unguarded against those words in Goro's mouth. "When?"

"Sometimes awake. Sometimes before sleeping. And sometimes—" Goro says, his lips pulling into an odd smile, "—and sometimes dreaming."

 _I thought of you too_ , Akira thinks, _this past year, ten times, a hundred times, a hundred thousand_ —but he cannot bring himself to break the silence. Cannot bring himself to say anything to break off the way Goro is staring at him.

As if from some unconscious impulse, Goro lifts his left hand. Raises it to the top of Akira's head, and drifts downwards, fingertips tangling lightly with the curls framing Akira's right cheek. A brief tug of fabric, as Goro's fingers run into the mask still tied over Akira's eyes.

Goro makes a questioning sound in his throat, and moves as if to pull back, his elbow dropping slightly downwards. 

Akira catches his hand before it can draw away, before Goro can step further out of his reach.

"Prove to me that you're real, not some ghost or dark shade here to torment me. Prove it to me," Akira says, and with his free hand, pulls off his own mask, lets it slide down his wrist to fall to rest over the tips of his shoes. " _Please_."

Goro edges forward, a mere half-step. 

Akira does not move away. Only loosens his grasp from Goro's hand, his fingertips brushing once against Goro's gloved palm as he does so. To leave him an escape, if he so chose.

Goro does not leave. 

He bends forward, almost as if to sink into a bow, and—

His lips cover Akira's. 

Goro's face is slightly tilted, the press of his mouth delicate and heated, no heavier than the brush of a flower petal over skin.

It could have lasted an hour. It could have lasted a handful of seconds.

Goro pulls back, only a mere inch or two. Both his hands are resting against the wall on both sides of Akira's face. 

Akira breathes in, out, aware of nothing else but his pulse and the expression on Goro's face, the movement of Goro's throat as he swallows before he speaks.

"Akira," Goro says, something imploring rippling beneath those syllables. "Is that," his lips press together once, and part, "enough to convince you?"

They have other things to talk about, but at this moment, Akira can hardly hold on to his own thoughts, let alone his speech. He can delay them, just a little.

Goro is still looking at him. Akira still wants—

"Perhaps," Akira says, feeling as if he had been swept up in a storm, and there was Goro, standing in the eye of it. "I cannot say I am certain. Come back." And Akira reaches out his hands, pulls Goro down by his lapels.

Their lips meet again, for two seconds, three, and four and five. Akira loses count. 

Goro's hand somehow works its way to the back of Akira's neck, tugs at the curls of his hair once to pull Akira closer to him.

Akira makes a noise, something of a plea in it, and tightens his grasp on Goro's shoulder, fingers curling around behind Goro's neck, feeling almost as if he was drowning.

In return, Akira's back presses harder against the wall as Goro shifts his weight forward, Akira himself aware of every point where their hands and chest and lips touched.

Akira leans his head back, just a little, and Goro deepens the pressure of their mouths, as if he were drinking honeyed wine from Akira's lips. Akira pushes back, attempts to keep his legs upright to match Goro's strength with his own.

 _Goro, Goro, Goro_ —Akira's heart pounds, following the beat of his thoughts.

The tiniest gasp escapes him when Goro's teeth scrapes lightly over his lips. Goro makes another sound at that, pleased and low, and breaks away just a little, shifts downwards to repeat the same action on the skin at the side of Akira's throat, at a point just beneath his jaw.

Everything is heat and electricity, crashing through his veins. 

Akira's whole body jerks upwards, intent on nothing but pushing every inch of himself as close to Goro as possible when—

Something shatters in the dark next to them.

The echoes of the crash seem fragile, like it had been a glass or a vase or some other decorative bauble that the rich love to keep for the sake of appearances. Whatever it is has fallen off a tiny table next to Goro's side. 

The both of them stop moving. 

Akira himself knows he is in disarray. Goro looks about the same as Akira thinks he would. His eyes burn even in the dim light, absolutely focused on Akira's face. He's without a mask, his fine ballroom clothing rumpled and half-undone. 

They might have stopped moving, but haven't stepped apart. Akira still has one hand clutched tightly around Goro's right lapel, and Goro's left leg has somehow made its way between Akira's thighs. 

"Was there a sound over there?" the two of them hear, from what seems to be a guard's voice, gruff and low. 

"That's not our area to patrol today," another says. "There's a report that there's signs of an intruder leaving from the northwest area of the castle. We better head over there unless you'd rather face the captain's displeasure."

More grumbling chatter between the guards, receding as they move, and then, quiet.

Akira breathes out, and he and Goro move away from each other, untangling their hands from shoulders and skin, and brushing down their clothing. 

" _Well_ ," Goro says, voice just slightly ragged. He clears his throat, tries to speak again. "Did you ever tell me why you had attended this event at this location specifically, Akira?"

Akira thinks, and decides. The truth is simple enough.

Goro should know.

"We came," he says, reaching into his vest, and pulling out some papers, "for some letters of Baron Shido's. We have something we need to do with them. I think—you may want to look at them."

He passes them over to Goro's hand. Goro looks down at the first two lines, then three, and more, but he shakes his head. "I think you can inform me later," he says. "We should leave, first, if there is some danger to you."

Akira just nods, and then tips his head towards the door. "Well. We shouldn't wait then. Let's go."

Goro adjusts his gloves, and tucks the letters into his own pocket, while Akira slides towards the door to peek into the hall, watching for the guards.

"Follow me," Akira says, when they head out the hall. 

They twist and turn through hallways and rooms, hear the music of the ball echoing with ghostly notes above them as they go through an underground passage, and emerge into a courtyard. 

It's at the opposite end of the main gate. 

Just a little more, past an armory and down a long pathway to the gate, and they'll be out. 

Five steps down the pathway, Akira sees Goro frown besides him. "We should run," Goro says, and Akira doesn't argue.

They move faster.

Sounds stir up into a growling storm behind them, some kind of shouts and an alarm being raised. 

The gate is close. Still open, still a way out.

Twenty steps left.

Seventeen.

Twelve.  
  
What they had planned for after this was—

Akira sees something glint at the corner of his eye, the back of his neck prickling. 

_Danger, danger_. A spear.

Akira's right hand lashes out—touches the back of Goro's shoulder—and he _pushes_.

Goro makes it through.

The portcullis at the gate slams down.

Something hits the back of Akira's leg. He falls.

The smell of dirt and stone, and steel. 

Something else hits his face. A jolt rattles his jaw, a burst of white light behind Akira's eyes—

"AKIRA!" 

Ah. That's Goro's voice. 

What could make him sound that way, as if the name he was calling was being ripped out of his throat?

"AKIRA! **AKIRA** —!"

 _I'm here_ , Akira wants to say, but for some reason, he can hardly even whisper the words. _I'm here_ — _Goro_ —and then darkness and silence wrap him up in their embrace.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +ahahah...second chapter obstacle...passed...how many words has it been T T  
> +in the next chapter, Akechi Goro is going to be all "My name is Akechi Goro. You kidnapped my boyfriend. Prepare to die." haha


	3. i'll cast off my gloves of red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm the Black Mask," the visitor says, as they stop in front of the dais. "I believe I received an invitation." 
> 
> The guest's voice is a smooth baritone, with the thinnest thread of danger beneath. Like smoke, barely held under control for the moment, but promising a blaze at the turn of a coin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: uhh brief depictions of violence, mentions of blood. not much else, here we gooo

One evening, Baron Shido's manor receives a visitor.

"A gift," the messenger says, with a sweeping bow, "to the Baron, for his astute farsightedness. Word of it has spread far and wide." 

The gift, displayed on a pillow by the messenger, is a silver bell. "Whoever rings this bell and thinks of a name," they say, "no matter how far-off that person is, they shall hear it."

"Whom is the gift from?" one of the Baron's servants ask.

"Why, it's a gift with compliments from the Black Mask," the messenger says, and bows, and leaves. 

The next day, at the same hour, a different messenger appears with another gift.

This gift is a small golden cup, seemingly no different than the cups that other nobility have used before. It is not engraved with elaborate decorations, nor encrusted with gems, but simply shines, subtly drawing in every eye to it like a splash of light in a dark room.

"A gift," the messenger says, "to the Baron, for his oratory eloquence."

The Baron narrows his eyes, and flicks a bored hand to the messenger to bring the gift closer. 

"And what, pray tell," the Baron says, "is this gift supposed to be?"

"Once a day," the messenger says, "no matter if it is on the hottest of days or the coldest of nights, this cup will fill itself with the sweetest, clearest water, which will refresh the mind with a new clarity, as if one had just risen from sleep into a fresh morn."

The Baron only nods then, and asked whom the gift was from.

"A gift with compliments," the messenger says, "from the Black Mask."

Baron Shido taps his fingers on his seat, and the guards beside him fidget as the messenger leaves, but in the end, they let them go unhindered.

The day after that, another messenger appears, with another gift.

Everyone seems puzzled for a moment, thinking that the messenger had shown up empty-handed, until they look a little closer at the item resting on the square of cloth in the messenger's hands.

The Baron doesn't even open his mouth to ask, only grunts at the messenger to get on with it.

"A gift," the messenger says, after a bow, "to the Baron, for his strength and wishes for his well-being."

Curious looks fly towards the messenger from some of the servants and the gathered nobles around the Baron's court—what could it be this time?

"This is a seed," the messenger says. "If planted, the flower will have marvelous medicinal properties. If eaten, it will restore any wound and heal any hurt."

The Baron only nods, looking bored, and waves a hand. Servants hurry forward to bear the gift away from the messenger's hand.

"A gift with compliments from the Black Mask," the messenger says. And leaves.

A day later, there are no more gifts. 

But there is a messenger with a message, with a request for the Baron.  
  


* * *

  
The Baron answers graciously enough. 

The gathering that evening is extravagant and lavish as all of the Baron's previous events have been.

The guests again, are masked.

The Baron himself seems to be in fine spirits, face flushed with wine and imperious satisfaction at the members of the party who had swayed into his presence, curtsied or bent the knee with some glittering flattery on their lips for the Baron's ears.

The servants themselves go bustling about their duties as usual with some quiet relief, whisking away dishes and relighting candles and soothing rustled feathers of visiting nobles. This day appears to be one of the few when the Baron seems disinclined to unleash his wrath on them, as long as the surrounding merriment suited his mood at the moment.

One of the nobles is calling for a new song from the musicians—"Come now, my good men! Something frisky and sprightly for dancers such as we, with many years yet left in our blood—"

The doors to the ballroom burst open. 

The guards at the door look startled, but they stand aside at a tip of the chin from the Baron.

The earlier cheer and chatter of the assorted guests lowers, falls quieter like heavy rain dissipating into a whispering drizzle.

Footsteps echo down the hallway, towards the round dais where the Baron sits. 

The person that appears before them is attired in garb of black, with gloves to match. The cape around their shoulders flutters as they walk, in a shade of rich midnight blue, bringing with it the smell of the deep forest, the spice of the night air. 

The most unusual thing they wear is their mask. It covers most of their face, leaving only their lips and jaw visible to the eye. 

The breadth of it almost makes it look like a helmet formed from slashes of darkness, curling upwards into two sharp points over the head like horns. As they walk, it seems to shift in the shadows until it was hard to tell whether the material itself was forged of feathers or something more metallic, something sharper to touch.

"I'm the Black Mask," the visitor says, as they stop in front of the dais. "I believe I received an invitation." 

The guest's voice is a smooth baritone, with the thinnest thread of danger beneath. Like smoke, barely held under control for the moment, but promising a blaze at the turn of a coin.

"We bid you welcome, Black Mask," Baron Shido says, and inclines his head.

The Black Mask takes two steps forward. 

"Greet his Lordship with due respect, Black Mask," a voice says, from the Baron's right side, a note of reproof in their tone. One of his attendants—perhaps the Baron's chamberlain.

The Black Mask stops.

Places a hand over their chest, and bows at the waist, their right foot drawing slightly backwards, his posture irreproachable and courtly.

"It is my great hope," the Black Mask says, once he has straightened from his bow,"that my gifts were well-received by one as honorable as the Baron."

"Ah. Yes. Those gifts." The Baron waves his left hand at one of the servants. A large gold ring, shaped as an engraved lion's head with its fangs bared in a roar, glints off one of his fingers with the movement. 

As quickly as if by magic, the gifts are summoned on pillows on servants' arms, and left on display on a table at the Baron's side. 

The silver bell. The golden cup. The mysterious seed.

The Baron swirls a full goblet of wine in one hand, and smiles, genially. "What manner of person are you, Black Mask? The bell, the cup, the seed—these gifts are not just mere halfpenny trifles, picked up at any common market. So—what is it that you wish to ask in exchange?"

The Black Mask pulls back his shoulders, taps once against the hilt of his weapon. "I have traveled far, and seen many shores," he says. "On any new lands that I have traveled to, I like to challenge the mastery of my abilities through battle. If it is not against your liking, I would wish to challenge some of your strongest fighters here, tonight. Consider it as a peculiar habit of mine."

"Oh?" The Baron's eyes glint with interest. "Very well then." He crooks his fingers at one of the servants near him, and murmurs instructions. The servant nods, and bows out of the hall.

Instinctively, the crowds of splendidly-dressed nobles draw away from where the Black Mask stands, leaving a circle open on the floor.

Within a heartbeat, the first fighter in the Baron's name steps up.

"What are the terms of the engagement?" the Baron asks.

The Black Mask draws out his sword. It shines bright in the dim hall, as if the heat in which it had been forged had not yet died down from the blade. The sabre's shape itself is unusual—tempered in waves, like curves of burning flame.

"Let's see," the Black Mask says, and taps one of his fingers against the corner of his lips. "First blood. Will that do?"

The Baron's fighter as he steps into the light is tall, looming, with a face made harsh by time and sunlight. _One of the strongest of the Baron's company_ —someone whispers from the sidelines— _reputedly stronger than five grown men._

Against the slighter figure of the Black Mask, he looks like a mountain about to thunder down onto a young oak, ready to break the tree into splinters.

The fighter nods at the Black Mask's words.

The fighter and the Black Mask bow once, and step away.

The hall goes quiet. 

At some unspoken signal, they start. The fighter lunges forward, the ground beneath his feet seeming to almost crack with his every step.

The Black Mask dodges the first attack. 

A gasp escapes him though, when the fighter turns, and slams the Black Mask's shoulder with his own arm.

The Black Mask shakes his head and clicks his tongue. Dances back two, three steps, his sword held up in a short guard position. 

He moves forward with speed, deflects the fighter's second hit with a grunt.

The fighter recovers and moves again, his sword curving towards the Black Mask's side.

A step, a half-turn, and another step. The Black Mask's blade flashes, and snakes forward.

One slash, two, three.

The fighter shouts and moves back, dropping down to a knee with a thud. First blood—red blood from the side of his swordarm, the inside of his elbow, and from one of his legs, a cut just below his knee.

The first victory goes to the Black Mask.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, and faint applause.

The Baron raises an eyebrow, mutters something that sounds like tight-lipped congratulations. 

The Black Mask breathes in and out for a moment, and straightens up. 

"Is that the best I can expect from the Baron's company?" he says. He doesn't even bother to fully hide the scorn in his voice.

Baron Shido smiles, a shallow pull of his lips, his hand with the ring clenching into a fist. "Your victory was well-earned, Black Mask," he says. "If you are not over-tired, there are others who you may test your mettle against."

Black Mask tips his head to the side, as if in thought. "I accept."

A second fighter from the crowd appears from the shadows to Shido's side. They step forward to the circle.

Where the first fighter looked strong, this one looks a little less so. They're tall, with lighter armor, and hawklike eyes. Still, something about their walk hints at speed, an instinctive canniness in their movements like that of a beast stalking prey in winter.

The second fighter pulls out their sword.

The second fighter and the Black Mask bow.

Neither of them move first. 

They merely circle each other, eyes narrowed in on each other's footwork, the darting of their opponent's gaze, judging the reach of the blade in their hand against the other's.

The second fighter springs forwards, strikes.

The Black Mask catches their blade with his own.

The second fighter twists their sword away, feet passing behind one another. 

The Black Mask skips backwards. Where he had been standing a moment ago, the fighter's blade whooshes past in the air, as swift as the wind.

Another step and another, both their swords held up defensively, their glances wary.

The Black Mask seems to hesitate, almost pauses in place a beat too long.

He throws his head back.

The second fighter's blade hisses, just an inch away from the Black Mask's throat.

The Black Mask sets his jaw. Swings up his blade.

He turns his wrist and _moves_.

The second fighter is fast. But the Black Mask is faster.

Something in him seems to have been awakened after the near miss—his strikes gain teeth.

The second fighter seems to be straining their every muscle with their movements, calling upon all their speed just to defend against the flurry of attacks.

One vicious arc through the air, and a another, and a thrust forward—the second fighter cries out.

A cut on the shoulder. Not too deep to separate the arm entirely, but deep enough for everyone watching to see the blood spreading from the wound.

The Baron's face shows obvious displeasure.

But the Black Mask bows, first to his opponent. Then the Baron.

"I have a request," the Black Mask says, voice light and pleasant, his sabre still red with the blood of the past two challenges.

"Let us hear it," the Baron says.

"I heard tell of late that you had captured a thief of some renown. If you would grant this boon," the Black Mask says, "it would bring me joy to challenge this thief, and test my strength against them. Will you grant it?"

"Why this request?" the Baron says, narrowing his eyes.

The Black Mask shrugs. "It would be a test of my battle skills," he says. "And sometimes, the mutts of the underworld have stranger and stronger skills than the most well-fed and well-kept hound. I would consider it a diverting change of pace, besides."

The previous silence of the crowd around them rises up into chatter at the Black Mask's words, the hum of it filled with approving anticipation.

The Baron is silent for a moment, before he speaks. "A diverting change of pace?" He laughs. "Very well!" He nods to a guard. "Bring out the thief. Give him some appropriate weapons."

The thief they bring out is dark-haired in dark attire, in a simple shirt and leggings. His hands are bound in front of him. A white blindfold is tied over his eyes.

The Black Mask watches him approach, and stands in place, his face smooth as a statue's.

The guards remove the thief's blindfold and his bindings, and kick him behind the knees to the front of the crowd.

To the front of the eyes of the Baron and the Black Mask.

The thief is young, and fair of face, save for the bruises on his skin. He blinks, as if still groggy from sleep, as his gray eyes adjust from the blindfold to the lit candles of the room.

The thief seems to be swaying slightly on their feet after approaching the circle, but they stay standing. 

Weapons are unbuckled from the nearest guard to arm him.

"Take him down," Baron Shido commands, and the thief moves into position across the Black Mask.  
  


* * *

  
  
Black Mask feels the strain in their arms, their shoulders, as they circle the thief.

A step forward to advance. 

The thief retreats two steps back.

A feint, a lunge.

Black Mask sidesteps it again. 

The thief follows through smoothly with their move, turning readily on their heel without hesitation.

Despite the thief's initial tired appearance, they are faster on their feet than would be expected. 

His moves are graceful, light, as if gravity itself only barely had a claim on his body.

Black Mask's sword nearly catches on the thief's blade. The Black Mask turns his hand, disengages.

They attack, and attack, and attack again.

Strange, that neither of them seem to have a clear advantage over the other in skills or strength.

The movement of this engagement seems familiar. Following some song singing in both their veins, one that only the two of them could hear.

Both thrust their swords forward at the same moment.

They stop.

There's a stinging on the left side of the Black Mask's arm.

His sabre too, is resting against a cut made on the thief's right arm.

Both pause, breaths heaving.

A draw.

The crowd around them stares, the quiet so heavy that it feels as if the slightest blink from either of them could break it.

The Baron is now standing on his feet, a cold curiosity in his eyes.

"An excellent display," he says, bringing his hands together in echoing applause. "Wouldn't you say so, all my fine men and ladies?"

The dancers around them clap too, but stay wordless.

"Black Mask," the Baron says, something slightly unctuous in his voice. "How would you like to serve me, as one of the fighters in my company?"

The Black Mask has the tip of his sabre pointed downwards. He looks up, the points of his mask moving with the tilt of his head.

"Apologies for the disappointment, Baron," he says, some tinge of irony buried in his tone. "I have to refuse."

"The rewards are great for those in my service."

A sneer pulls up the Black Mask's lips, sharp as a knife. "I do not care for your rewards. I _refuse_."

"Very well," the Baron says. Shrugs. "I have no use for those who do not choose to side with me." He nods his head at the thief. Says, simply, "Kill him."

The thief struggles. His head seems to shake.

Then, his gray eyes flash to gold, just once. And he _moves_.

No one else in the crowd seems to have expected this. There are a few brief cries of alarm, but they're drowned out soon enough by laughs with a vicious edge, their sounds eager and bloodthirsty.

A blow from the thief's sword aims for the Black Mask's throat. 

The Black Mask moves back, just in time, but it is close enough that it knocks off the mask from his face.

The Black Mask is but a young man, perhaps just a little older than the thief. Unlike his fallen mask, his hair is a light brown, with tints of gold. His eyes, narrowing with concentration, are also brown, but with darker hue of red beneath.

"Akira!" the Black Mask calls, a name none of the crowd has heard before, and is forced back two steps when the thief's sword aims again for the Black Mask's injured side.

Their match continues.

A thrust. 

A parry. 

The Black Mask moves out of range, pivots to a more advantageous position, and the thief follows.

Their blades lock. 

With a hiss, the Black Mask's sword slides away, and disengages.

"Akira," the Black Mask growls. "You can stop this. It's me. Just me. _You know me_."

The thief—Akira—doesn't seem to hear his words.

The Black Mask hisses as he seems to receive another wound, this time, a glancing slash over his collarbone. 

The thief stops moving. Barely two paces away from the Black Mask, within reach of the Black Mask's sabre.

A sound twists out from his throat, as if he is trying to shape a word. "Goro," the thief says, his sword lowering slightly towards the floor.

The Black Mask—Goro—heaves a breath, his hand clenching tighter around his sabre. "What has he done to you?" 

" _Goro_ ," Akira repeats, his eyes flickering from gray to gold to gray again. "The ring—the ring on his hand is bespelled—"

His words cut off as he moves back, as if some unseen hand had yanked on him and pulled him away. Akira brings up his sword, though his fingers give off a faint trembling around their grasp on its hilt.

Goro narrows his gaze.

There, there—very faint but still visible to his eye, like light seen through a haze—shimmer what look to be golden chains, the manacles snapped tight like fangs into skin around Akira's wrists at one end, and on the other, the links leading back to— 

The ring. Goro's eyes flicker over to where the Baron sits.

The ugly glint of the roaring lion on the Baron's finger, on his left hand.

He would be too far away to reach it now, too slow—

A burst of breath leaves his throat, as Goro finds his back pushed up against a column.

Too close range, now, to avoid hurting Akira entirely but—

An ungraceful twist of his elbow, a sweep towards the left, and he smacks the hilt of his blade against Akira's right wrist.

It does what Goro intended.

Akira drops his weapon with a quiet cry, though it seems to be more from shock than pain.

Without hesitation, Akira drops his hand down. A dagger slides into his palm.

Goro lets his own sword fall. 

He tries to grab for Akira's wrists, trusting that his gloves would protect him from lighter slashing damage but—

Akira evades him, the flash of the dagger veering towards Goro's chest—

Akira's eyes are still golden—

They both freeze.

The point of the dagger has stopped, just resting above Goro's heart.

Another half-inch deeper, it would have drawn blood.

Akira is staring at him, gray eyes quiet, serene. 

He smiles, incongruously, at Goro. "I'm sorry," he says.

The dagger turns. 

Akira stabs himself.

Some noise, a shout, a _snarl_ , has leapt its way out of Goro's throat, red clouding his eyes—

Akira sags, his whole body falling, and Goro catches him.

He watches scarlet stain Akira's hand, spreading from his wound onto his dark clothes like spilled ink. 

Goro lays Akira down as gently as he could to the floor.

A cacophony rises all around him, but Goro pays them no mind.

"What a pitiful end for a pitiful life—" Baron Shido says. "Even his own family, noble as they were, had no wish to ransom a thief like him—"

Goro rises from his knees. 

"It has been a most illuminating evening, Baron" he says, both his eyes and tongue cold and edged as iron. "But the only ending you will see here today—"

And before the Baron's guards can even move—

Goro has rushed forward and is there—

"— _will be your own_." His left hand is clasped around the Baron's throat, fingertips digging into his windpipe. His other hand has his sword, at a low guard position at his hip.

The Baron is struggling to speak, but still manages to croak out "— _Guards_!—" and the ring around his finger begins to glow.

"No." Goro increases the pressure of his fingers. "No more orders," he says. "No more commands." 

He shifts his sword and reaches out his right hand, yanks the lion's head ring off of Shido's finger, the movement so sharp it draws blood off skin. " _No. More. Chains_."

At his last word, he stomps on the ring with his boot. It cracks beneath his heel.

A puff of black-looking smoke from the floor, an acrid smell following it, and then, nothing.

"Wh—who are you?" the Baron gasps out. For the first time since the evening, the arrogance in his gaze is absent, fully filled now with inklings of fear.

A clamor of a different tone rises from the doorway to the room. 

Goro turns his gaze. A small crowd bursts in, with some faces that Goro recognizes—Akira's friends, and co-conspirators as the Phantom Thieves—and a few he didn't.

"That is _enough_. Stand down, Black Mask."

This voice is from one he doesn't recognize. She has a sharp look in her eyes, shrewd and unfaltering. She bears herself with the poise of someone used to moving among powerful settings.

"Fine," Goro says. He turns back to the Baron. Once, long long ago, he would have relished the chance to spit his name at this face, but now—"I'm nobody that you need to remember. However—I will pass on these regards from my mother." 

He raises his sword, only to sheathe it. 

Draws back his fist, and punches Shido once, hears Shido's face snap to the side with the motion.

He drops the Baron and steps back from the dais, turns on his heel to hurry to Akira's side.

Vaguely, he hears the lawyer—Lawyer Sae, it seemed from her introduction—step up towards the Baron to recite charges of corruption, bribery, coercion, assassination—  
  
And here, by Akira, a different kind of commotion—

_"He'll be all right, won't he Futaba?"_

_"Don't distract her, Ryuji, she's in the middle of checking—"_

"Let me see him," Goro says. He doesn't word it as a request.

The Thieves—Ann, Ryuji, Yusuke—and the others look uncertain at this, until a cat in their midst pads out and meows at Goro's feet. Morgana.

The Thieves part, to leave room for Goro to crouch to his knees besides Akira.  
  


* * *

  
  
Goro pulls off his gloves. Holds a hand in front of Akira's lips. 

Good. He was still breathing.

The wound and the dagger are both still there. 

He looks around at the Thieves. "I have an idea," Goro says slowly, "but there is some small risk to it."

Futaba is the first to speak up. "I don't think there's a lot of time for him to be moved and treated," she says. "Akira trusts you—so if you think it'll help him, we'll trust you too."

The rest of the Thieves nod.

Goro spins on his feet, hurries up to the table by the dais to sweep the bell, the cup, and the seed there into his arms.

He takes the tablecloth as well, bundles it up into a rough pillow for Akira's head.

He makes an indication with his hands for a little space, and the surrounding Thieves take two steps back. Asks for a clean cloth, and Ann produces a stretch of white satin from the sash of her dress.

Some alarmed noises rise up when Goro wraps his hand around the dagger still lodged in Akira's wound, but he merely shoots them a glare, and presses his lips together. "I would not usually do this for injuries like these," he says. "But it's necessary in this case."

In a usual course of treatment, it would be better to leave the weapon there, for fear of Akira bleeding out.

But now, Goro braces himself. 

Tugs the dagger out, as quickly as he could, and clears away the threads of Akira's clothes sticking to the wound. He presses the folded-up white sash over the wound with his left hand.

With his other hand, he first picks up the seed, crushes it between his fingers. Slides it gently onto Akira's tongue, and tips his head back so he would swallow.

Next, the cup. He swirls the gold cup once, and water fills it, just up to the brim. He tilts it towards Akira's lips, slowly, slowly, supporting Akira's head until Akira has swallowed all of it.

Finally, he raises the silver bell. Rings it, once, twice over Akira's ear, the sound of it as clear as a shooting star across a midnight sky.

Akira's eyelashes flutter, but he does not wake.

"Akira," Goro calls, very softly, leaning closer so his breath just brushes over Akira's face. " _Wake up_."

Akira opens his eyes. Shuts them, and groans softly.

Excited shouts float from the Phantom Thieves, who now crowd in closer. The first person that Akira looks at though, is Goro, hovering above him with one hand placed over Akira's chest, measuring his heartbeat, the other hand still pressing cloth over his wound.

Akira doesn't say anything, not just yet. Just watches Goro silently as he pulls away the square of white cloth from where Akira had been bleeding. 

The wound has just closed over. Goro runs one finger of his free hand along the scar, the color of it just a little pinker than the skin around it. The seed's healing properties had worked, after all. The bruises that he had seen too, on Akira's face, have faded.

Akira's heartbeat under his other hand is steady, comforting.

"If you got to see the world, Goro," Akira says, voice faintly hoarse, one hand sliding up to fold over Goro's left hand atop his chest, "I'm glad. That after all the wonders you had seen, you could come back to see me, just once."

"Don't you already know, Akira?" Goro says, the warmth of his words matching Akira's warmth beneath his spread palm. "You _are_ the world to me."

Akira's eyes widen, and he reaches up his other hand to rest lightly, lightly on the side of Goro's face.

Goro answers his unasked question, and leans in, lets his lips meet Akira's.

_I've come back. I've returned to you._

Perhaps, in some strange fashion, the wish of Goro's mother had been granted after all.  
  


* * *

  
The explanation of the rest of the story unfolds after, details revealed on top of details.

The Phantom Thieves, who had pulled Goro away from the gate, had whisked him to one of their safer hideouts. The rescue plan they had come up with nights after, Goro by turns wild-eyed and keenly calculating all the while.

Makoto's sister, Sae, who was a lawyer of no small repute. The letters that Goro had managed to carry to the Phantom Thieves had traced accounts of bribes and backers in Baron Shido's employ, the ones who had targeted both commoners and the children and heirs of nobility. The judge, Igor, who would be overseeing Baron Shido's case, and his goddaughter Lavenza, who had been threatened by one of Shido's cronies.

They have time later, celebrating around a table, to share everything in full. Morgana scampers up and over the tables in excitement at the chatter as Futaba swipes a fruit off the table to slice in her hands, ignoring Yusuke's squawk of indignation. Ann and Haru appear to be in debate over the price of wool and cloth imports that season. Makoto tosses out a warning at Ryuji, who seems to be making a second attempt at juggling five knives. 

And as for Goro, he sticks close to Akira's side, their hands idly entwined more often than not. 

Akira goes first, about his slow-growing bonds with each of the Thieves, and some of their adventures which he had omitted from his letters to Goro. Goro, in turn, tells him of the places he had seen while trying to track down Shido's whereabouts, when all he had to go off of were his mother's memories and the locket that she had left him, the one that Shido had supposedly bought her on some sunny market's day.

Goro also remembers to write to Captain Muhen some time later, thanking him for his kindness and his care while Goro was on the _Kohryu_ , after being picked up from stormy waters.

"I understood why we needed to be apart for a while," Akira says one morning. "We had things we needed to do. Needed to face. I did wonder though—"

The wind is crisp, and dances playfully through the curls of his hair. Woodsmoke and spiced meats and the ambrosial perfume of ripe fruits thread through the air around them.

"Hmm?" Goro says, waiting for the rest of Akira's question. The look in Akira's eye is one he has seen before, that calm stare into the distance, something tugging at his mind like tides beneath the moon. 

"Would it have been too distracting to write to me, after the storm and when you had been looking for—your father?"

Robin shifts beneath Goro, ears pricking forward, the pace of his trot slowing. He must have sensed some of Goro's mood. 

Goro laughs, with slight nervousness. "No," Goro says. "It's—it was my pride, in a manner of speaking."

"Oh?"

"I wanted to come back to you after I had earned my fortune, you see. Have some kind of business flourish enough to bring you—I don't know, rubies the size of your fist. Golden pendants, or circlets with gems, or silver clasps for your cloak."

"And my body weight in diamonds?" Akira throws in, with levity in his grin. "But then—I think I understand," he says, a little quieter.

Arsène nickers towards Robin as Akira manuvers her closer to Goro, and Akira pats her side.

"Didn't you know, Goro?" Akira says, his face turned towards Goro's gaze. "You don't need gold or silver or gems to persuade me to stay with you." He leans in even closer, and Goro can see Akira's eyes, bright with affection, and focused on him. 

Brief heat, as Akira presses his lips to Goro's, and a hand runs through Goro's hair. Familiar sensations now, but no less intoxicating, for all that.

Akira pulls away, his lips reddened, and laughs lightly at the look in Goro's eyes, as he murmurs, "If you can catch me, you can keep me." 

He races off the path on Arsène, free as the wind beneath sky.

Goro kicks his heels lightly into Robin's sides to urge him into a gallop, and follows after Akira, for this morning, and the next and the next, for forever and a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're done!! whew... thanks to everyone who ever commented and encouraged this to finish and my sprintbuddies, adkfjsdaf
> 
>  **me, worrying over the draft:** is my writing here even Interesting???  
>  **my mutual:**
> 
>   
> 
> 
> time for the long end notes ahaha _(:3」∠)_  
> +this chapter was edited mostly by listening to this song, aptly enough titled "promises" ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9J3C9jKxF6w))
> 
> +chapter titles were variations on lines from [the ballad the hind horn](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hind_Horn), about separated lovers and disguises and jumping in at the last moment to reveal their identity
> 
> +story notes that didn't make it into the fic:  
> i had been planning to imply that the Baron Shido got a magic mind-controlly type ring from yaldy, who was going to be an evil wandering wizard...but there were already too many characters in the cast so yaldy got pushed out, lmao  
> +for those who can recognize it, yes shido's ring was based off the ring of pride that you can get in Royal  
> +akira and goro are happily traveling around over the lands for a while  
> +morgana can probably talk! but only when he feels like it  
> +the phantom thieves are still phantom thieves without their personas. no, don't ask me how this works. (the persona is their true self, so technicallly their personas are always with them blah blah blah)
> 
> +Ok yes, i know Shido was referred to as Baron Shido in this fic, but as a Baron, Shido would never be just addressed as Baron Shido, but i didn't want to get into the whole bother of naming a territory for him lol. 
> 
> So here's a good post on how titles of nobility generally work:  
> [Let’s say Artemis Fowl is an earl. He wouldn’t be ‘Earl Fowl,’ he would be ‘Lord [Somewhere], The Earl of [Somewhere]’ if his title came with territory, or ‘Lord [Title-name], Earl [Title-name]’ if the position was a title only. He would NEVER be called ‘Earl [Family-name]’ unless the family name had already been adopted from the title. (ex. Black Butler, where the MC is Ciel Phantomhive, The Earl of Phantomhive.)](https://high-pot-in-noose.tumblr.com/post/181428768203/writing-advicewriting-lessonval-rants-whocares)
> 
> +someone who knows about swords, pls don't @ me about Goro/Black Mask's sword...to make things fun, i decided he was using something similar to his best available weapon in Royal, and just called it a sabre with a flamberge style edge (the wavy edge, which is probably really hard to clean and sharpen), even though most swords that can be done in a flamberge style are usually just zweihanders or rapiers so i threw up my hands about it; special thanks to this sword post especially [here](https://three--rings.tumblr.com/post/629003041092304897/yomikoreadsbooks-petermorwood-celticorca)
> 
> +i thought too much about the kind of color-matching horses that akira and goro were riding on, so you get to read me chattering on here about them:
> 
> Arsène- (the mare that Akira rides) i was imagining Arsène as a smaller friesian-arabian crossbreed type, maybe looking something like [this](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rYaFeLUck9A/VKdCfO9ifvI/AAAAAAAAASg/HrprM9lxx28/s1600/2.jpg)
> 
> Robin- (the horse Goro rides) Spanish Andalusian horse, with their most common coat color being gray (gray meaning that it can be so light that the color looks white), here's a [pic as ref](https://www.horsebreedspictures.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/Photos-of-Andalusian-Horses.jpg)
> 
> +for the loki fans, u can headcanon that sometime down the road they get a pony named loki because ponies...are...infamously...smart...apparently:  
>  _On the one hand, the equestrian classes particularly in the English-speaking world have habitually started their children on ponies. On the other, ponies are notoriously clever, wicked, headstrong, and challenging to handle._
> 
>  _Ponies may be evil and they may be too clever for anyone’s good, but they’re amazing teachers._ ([x](https://www.tor.com/2019/10/28/sff-horse-breeds-attack-of-the-pony-brain/))


End file.
